The Front Porch Prophet (23 page)

“We need to talk about something,” he blurted out. The words were abrupt, not at all what he had in mind. He stood and looked out over the dam, silently pledging to throw himself into the cataract if he screwed this up. He knew a spot where the rusted rebar would be bound to impale him.

“Tell me what it is,” said Maggie with concern in her voice. She arose and stood next to him.

“I need for you to marry me,” was his reply. A soft breeze brushed the surface of the lake. He studied the far shore. His fist was in the pocket of his denim cutoffs, clenched around an engagement ring. He intended to fling it far if she declined to wed.

A.J. risked a quick peek out of the corner of his eye at Maggie. She was looking at him and smiling. She took his hand and squeezed it gently, and he removed the ring from his pocket and placed it on her finger. Her eyes widened a touch in surprise, but she was still smiling.

“Pretty sure of yourself, weren’t you, Farm Boy?” she asked. The ring was too large, so she slipped it on her thumb for safekeeping.

“You haven’t said yes,” he pointed out.

“Yes,” she responded.

Thus their paths merged, and from that point on they traveled the same road. They spent the remainder of the summer and autumn preparing for their leap of love and faith, and they pledged their troth on a cold January day in a simple wedding attended by family and friends. John Robert was the best man, and Maggie’s maids of honor were her many sisters. The reception was catered by Granmama, who made the fanciest dishes she knew: cocktail wieners in barbecue sauce, cheese balls, and little cucumber sandwiches. The cake was made by Maggie’s sister, Eudora Welty, and it was magnificent even if the layers did bear the vaguest resemblance to coffee cans, which is what she had used for pans. Emmett Callahan gave his daughter away and in deference to the solemnity of the ceremony only glared momentarily at A.J. The rings were exchanged, the veil lifted, and the kiss given and received. And then it was done. The two became as one in the eyes of God and the governor of Georgia. They became the current incarnation of a devotion that spanned the long ages of the world, a fidelity destined to last until the end.

Now, years later, A.J. softly kissed his sleeping wife. He dressed quietly and went downstairs. He poured a cup of coffee brewed by John Robert. Then he stepped on the porch to greet his father. The elder Longstreet was busy cleaning the fish he had brought home the previous evening. They had spent the night in a bucket of water and now were taking the final step to becoming full-fledged members of the food chain.

“Morning, John Robert,” A.J. said, settling down in his rocker. He knew that John Robert had been up for some time; he was an early riser even by A.J.’s standards. Back when he was employed, A.J. would arrive home from the sawmill around four in the morning, and invariably he would be greeted by his father, who would be busying around on some small project or other while waiting patiently for the sluggards of the world to arise.

“Thought you were going to stay in bed all day,” John Robert replied. The sun had not yet risen. His razor sharp knife flashed with quick, sure movements.

“I’m getting lazy since I became unemployed,” A.J. said, taking a sip of coffee. It was painfully strong.

“I heard about that yesterday in town,” John Robert grunted. He finished filleting the last fish and laid the grayish-white squares of bass in the pan along with the others. They would make a fine supper that evening, served fried alongside cabbage slaw, salty fried potatoes, and hush puppies made of sweet yellow cornmeal. Admittedly, the fare would be better for the soul than for the heart, but no one lived forever. “They didn’t waste any time,” John Robert continued, rinsing his hands in the bucket.

“No, they didn’t,” A.J. agreed, taking another sip of coffee. “They are very efficient people.” He felt a coffee ground on his tongue and spit the offending particle over the porch rail. John Robert made coffee in the old way, by boiling a handful of grounds in a pot that had been timeworn when Granmama was still a slip of a girl. The resulting brew was not for the faint of heart.

There was no enmity in A.J.’s voice, and he wished no harm to the people from Alabama Southern. Not much, anyway. Maybe the odd broken leg or unfaithful wife, just to smooth out any unlevel spots in their bloodsucking, tree-sawing karmas.

John Robert picked up his pan of fish and headed into the kitchen. The screen door squeaked a second time as A.J. followed him in. The elder Longstreet rinsed the fish at the sink, then put them in the refrigerator to chill. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat at the table.

In the harsh fluorescent light, he looked his age. This was a recent phenomenon; he had aged well until this year, the heart attack notwithstanding. Now he looked like an old man, and it was hard for A.J. to get comfortable with the idea.

“Have you given any thought to what you’re going to do now?” John Robert asked, looking at his son.

“I thought I might borrow Slim’s big shotgun and go kill them all in their beds,” A.J. replied.

“Will you be back by supper, or do you want me to make you a plate?” John Robert inquired, surprising A.J. Most of his attempts at kidding with his father were met with deadpan looks and stony silences.

“I’ll be back in time,” A.J. said with a broad grin.

“Want some breakfast?”

“No, I don’t think so.” A.J.’s years of shift work had left his eating schedule in ruin, and he tended to eat at different times than most people. He looked at the clock on the wall and noted it was time to be moving along. He had awakened this morning wishing he had not promised Eugene a visit. He was ashamed of this reluctance and strengthened his resolve, but he hoped to get the visit completed early in the day. He stood and stretched.

“I’m going up to see Eugene for a while,” he told his father. “I should be back around lunch. Maggie’s worn out, so let her sleep. She can go to church twice next week.”

“How is Eugene doing?” asked John Robert.

“I don’t think he has very long.”

“Tell him I’m thinking about him,” John Robert said in a somber tone. “Tell him if I can help him, to just let me know.”

“I’ll tell him.” A.J. left the house and climbed into his truck. It was balky in the cool morning, but he coaxed it to life after a few false starts and made the short drive to town. As he drove through Sequoyah, he noticed several vehicles parked outside of the Follow Me, and I Shall Make You Fishers of Pecan Pie Drive-In. One of them was John McCord’s truck. A.J. liked his loose ends tidied, so he entered and sat at the counter next to his former boss.

“A.J.,” John said, sounding truly happy to see his former employee. “Hoghead, bring some coffee and collision mats for A.J.” Hoghead appeared wearing a coat and tie and whistling what may have been “Will the Circle Be Unbroken,” but with his whistling skills it was hard to be certain. Sunday morning coffee and collision mats comprised Hoghead’s ministry. He opened early and provided them free of charge so that all comers would be fed and alert when they got to church. Around ten o’clock he would close up and go down to the Rapture Preparation Holiness Temple to get his weekly dose of rapture preparation.

“How is it going down at the mill?” John McCord inquired.

“Couldn’t really say,” responded A.J. “I lasted two days longer than you did, but I think your check was probably larger.” There was an uncomfortable silence that A.J. did nothing to mellow. He figured John needed to squirm. It would build character.

Finally, McCord broke the silence with a grunt. His movements were slow as he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and retrieved his checkbook. As A.J. and Hoghead looked on, John McCord wrote out his portion of A.J.’s severance package. Hoghead whistled low. John stood up, leaving the check on the lunch counter.

“You know, A.J., I don’t owe you a damn thing,” he said with tension in his voice.

“You don’t now,” A.J. responded as he picked up his money. They faced each other. Then John turned and left.

“I think he feels bad about it,” observed Hoghead.

“We can hope,” said A.J. He finished his coffee and asked Hoghead if he would pour a large one for Eugene. Hog poured two and provided a sackful of collision mats, as well. A.J. thanked him and headed for the truck.

He drove slowly as he left town, enjoying the coolness of the morning as it blew in the vent window. He occupied his mind with the thoughts of the picnic he intended to take later in the day with Maggie and the children. As he drove, he passed the spot where Slim had arrested Patty Hearst years earlier, and he smiled.

That was the summer Patty Hearst had decided for some bizarre reason that robbing banks was intrinsically better work than being a millionaire heiress. The resulting nationwide girl hunt took on a circus air, and Slim Neal succumbed to the frenzy along with many of his law enforcement brethren. Patty Hearst loomed large on his mind, and the obsession led him to erroneous conclusions on the day he observed a road-worn young woman hanging about the outskirts of town. It was true the lass bore some resemblance to the fugitive in question, in that she possessed two breasts and lacked a penis, but other than that, the similarities were scant. Slim was never one to let facts deter a good investigation, however, so he scooped her up and ran her in. When the FBI agents arrived, they discerned fairly quickly that the woman Slim had in the slammer was not the infamous Hearst. Slim was impressed with the swift work of the Feds and wanted to know in detail how they had made such short work of the affair. Was it fingerprints? Were dental records used? Had they contacted Interpol?

“Patty Hearst is a white girl,” said Agent Simser, the more talkative of the two. Then the FBI boys loaded Shereea into their car and gave her a ride to the nearest Greyhound terminal.

A.J. was still smiling when he turned off the highway. As he bumped along the ruts, he could smell the fresh fragrance of pine in the early morning air. When he reached the hanging-tree, he turned left and headed up Eugene’s road. He kept an eye peeled for Rufus, who could strike at any time. But the trip to the clearing was without incident, leaving him to wonder what was going on. He could not see Eugene, and the canine from hell should have long since attacked. He blew the horn. Then he got out slowly with his bat at the ready. The coffee and collision mats could wait for the all clear.

Eugene appeared at the door, wrapped in a blanket. He stepped out and sat on the porch. His hair was uncombed, and the dark circles under his eyes were clearly visible from the yard. It was evident he had endured a bad night. He peered in A.J.’s direction, and a smile crossed his face.

“Rufus! Sit!” he shouted. A.J. whirled, and there was the dog. He had infiltrated to within five feet and would have had Longstreet hash for breakfast if Eugene had not intervened. Rufus glared, and A.J. could swear he saw triumph in the canine’s evil eyes.

“Old Eugene won’t always be around to save you,” Eugene patiently explained. He was enjoying the episode a great deal. A.J. was shaken. Rufus had nearly won the prize, and the prize was having difficulty with the concept. “You’re going to have to tighten up, if you want to live to be old,” he observed, lighting a cigarette.

“Words cannot express how much I hate your dog.”

“Hate
is a strong word,” said Eugene. “You merely have different priorities. He wants to eat your ass, and you want to save it. Anyway, he’s your dog. I gave him to you.” Eugene took a drag from his cigarette and broke into a coughing fit. His frame was racked with the effort, and he appeared weak and pale.

“Maybe you should switch to filter tip,” A.J. said with concern.

“Maybe you should kiss my ass,” Eugene croaked, trying to catch his breath. His hands shook, and he seemed to be in pain. He twisted the lid off of a small bottle and tossed back the contents. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

“Are you okay?” A.J. asked.

“Stupid question,” observed Eugene.

“Yeah, I guess. How about some coffee?”

“I’d like a cup.” A.J. got the coffee and doughnuts and brought them to the porch. He stepped inside for some sugar, which he poured freely into both cups. Eugene took a big slug and sighed in appreciation.

“I like my coffee like I like my women,” he ventured, waiting for A.J. the straight man.

“You like your coffee to cost forty dollars? You like your coffee to have big breasts?” A.J. leaned over and looked into Eugene’s cup, as if checking.

“Nobody likes a wise guy,” said Eugene.

“Have a doughnut,” said A.J., handing the sack to Eugene. They took the remainder of their coffee break in silence. The coffee and the collision mats seemed to revive Eugene. He looked better and seemed more at ease. Hoghead’s coffee tasted like medicine, and A.J. had always suspected it had medicinal value. He made a mental note to tell Hog that Eugene had enjoyed the breakfast. It was the kind of news the old cook liked to hear.

“Anybody interesting in town this morning?” Eugene asked as he finished his coffee. A.J. handed over his own cup.

“I saw John McCord down at the drive-in.”

“Did you hit him in the kneecaps with your bat?”

“No. We had a cup of free coffee and he paid me off.” He showed the check to Eugene.

“If you don’t tell Maggie May about that,” Eugene noted, nodding at the draft, “you can have some good times.”

“Just one festivity after another,” A.J. agreed. “Girls, girls, girls.”

“Never mind. I can tell your heart’s not in it. You’d end up showing the girls pictures of Maggie May and the kids.”

“I do have some nice shots,” A.J. remarked, reaching for his billfold.

“I’ve seen them,” Eugene said, holding up his hands. “Real nice shots.” He shook his head. “You’re hopeless. Don’t you ever get the urge?”

“I think you’ve got the urge now,” A.J. said, sidestepping the question. “Maybe we can find someone to help you out with that.”

“What I’d like is to take care of one last urge with Diane,” Eugene said. He turned and asked, “What do you think my chances are?”

“I really couldn’t say,” said A.J.